


AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-11
Updated: 2011-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can’t take it anymore and he’s moving out. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ginbitch).



> **Written for:** [](http://ginbitch.livejournal.com/profile)[**ginbitch**](http://ginbitch.livejournal.com/) for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/221b_slash_fest/profile)[**221b_slash_fest**](http://community.livejournal.com/221b_slash_fest/) "No Taste Like Holmes for the Holidays" Secret Santa fic exchange.  
>  **Beta:** [](http://misanthropyray.livejournal.com/profile)[**misanthropyray**](http://misanthropyray.livejournal.com/) did a wonderful, last-minute, confidence-boosting beta.

John comes back from a trip to Tesco and in that short period of time, no more than a half hour, Sherlock has pulled out the head he’s been keeping in the fridge and is using a large meat slicer to create thin, sandwich-worthy slices of brain on their table.

“Sherlock, what the bloody fuck?” John doesn’t even bother to get excited or to raise his hands in a series of useless gestures. It’s futile. He realizes this, has realized it for some time.

“I need brain slice cultures,” Sherlock says.

“You couldn’t do this in the lab at St. Bart’s?”

“They don’t have a proper slicer and the one I really want is on back-order. So these aren’t tissue-thin, but they’ll have to do. I’m in a hurry.”

“Of course.” John can’t take it anymore, he really can’t. He’s seen a lot of patently grotesque things in his time, he is well aware of what the body can look like when it’s reduced to parts – to meat and bone and blood. But this is his _kitchen_ , this is where he cooks his meals and makes his tea. This is where he brings all their groceries so that he can cook for and feed Sherlock like John’s his bloody housekeeper.

“That’s it, I’m done,” John says. He dumps the groceries on the sofa and goes to his room to pack his bags. Harry’s house is hostile but comfortable, he can manage.

He lasts two days at his sister’s and when he returns, Sherlock has cleaned the kitchen, removed the head and the meat slicer, and solved the case. He beams when John knocks on the door and enters with his bags and several heavy sighs of defeat.

“I bought groceries but I don’t know what to do with them,” Sherlock says, gesturing helplessly toward the kitchen. And that’s the end of that.

~*~

In the middle of the night, John wakes to a rather loud, banging noise and he shoots up out of his warm cocoon, images he’d thought banished from his brain coming back along with the familiar panic.

He shifts out of the bed and stumbles to the door.

If Sherlock is hacking up bodies, he will go back to bed as long as they’re already dead.

If Sherlock is cooking, he will put out the fire and then go back to bed.

If Sherlock is being beaten up by some criminal, he will go back to bed.

Sherlock is in the front room with his riding crop. He is not alone. There is a leather-clad pretty boy with a shock of dark hair and too much eyeliner sitting on John’s chair with his legs splayed and a cigarette between his fingers.

“About like this,” Sherlock says, and whacks the coffee table with his riding crop.

“Okay, that seems all right,” the boy says. “Shouldn’t break the skin, yeah?”

“Not if I’m correct in the force applied and I am, of course, correct.”

“Sherlock,” John splutters in the doorway. “Sherlock.” He has no words.

“John. Join us. An experiment in progress. Clive Owen here has agreed to let me beat him for a not inconsiderable sum. Oh, do you have any cash handy?”

“You hired a prostitute in order to beat him for an experiment?”

“Obviously.”

“You can suck me off after,” the boy chimes in helpfully. “Or fuck me. I get randy when I get beat.”

“This is sick,” John says. “Even for you, Sherlock. Send this young man home or call a social worker, for god’s sake.”

“I’m 20, mate; too old for social workers. You want to join in? I won’t even charge extra.”

“Join in?” John has just about had it. He’s uncomfortable enough about the entire situation but also, if he’s honest, the expression on Sherlock’s face when the boy offered sex has unsettled him. It was _curious_ , as if Sherlock was actually _considering_ the offer.

“Get out. Please get out. Sherlock, this is just unacceptable.”

“John, lives are at stake. I need this data. I need to see patterns of bruising and I need to confirm the force needed to create these patterns. Look!” He pulls out a photo showing a dead young man, naked from the waist down, his legs covered in bruises. Whatever else Sherlock is saying is lost on John, all he can think about now is the dead boy and his uncanny lookalike sitting in their front room.

“I could be the next victim an’ all,” the kid drawls unconvincingly. He’s looking hungrily at Sherlock. John rolls his eyes.

“I’ll be in a hotel until this case is solved,” John says. He can’t bear to hear the boy being beaten, and he can’t stand the thought of Sherlock… well. He can’t ask if Sherlock intends to because then Sherlock will question his motives for wanting to know. All he can do is re-stuff his duffel and put the room on his credit card. Maybe he won’t even come back.

Three days later his credit card has reached the limit and he reluctantly returns to 221b Baker Street. On his bed is an envelope with a credit card inside. It has his name on it. There’s a note:

 _Don’t worry, it’s Mycroft’s money. Use it whenever you need to._

~*~

John receives a phone call from Sally Donovan, of all people.

“Lost your mind, have you?” She asks.

“I’m sorry, what is this about?”

“You moved out, you were free, and now you’ve gone back to him and this is how he repays you.”

“Look, Sally, I don’t think it’s any of your business where I live and with whom and whatever Sherlock’s done, I’m sure it’s…”

“He hacked your blog, John. Took us a while to catch on, but it’s not something you’d write and it’s – forgive me – too clever for you.” John can hear muffled laughter in the background along with the usual hum of Scotland Yard office activity.

“My blog…” John begins. “What has he done to my blog?”

“Taken it over, clearly. Made you out for a fool, he has. Now maybe you’ll learn what we’ve been trying to tell you and get away from him.” Sally clears her throat uncomfortably before dropping her voice. “People really like you John. I like you. I don’t like the idea of him messing about with you.”

John mumbles a thanks and scrambles for his laptop. Sherlock isn’t home and John had been hoping for a relaxing morning before heading to the clinic. He waits impatiently for the computer to warm up and goes straight to his blog.

Sherlock has done a write-up of their latest case together pretending to be John. Sherlock’s prose is crystal-clear, but it’s not John’s style, and then... _I failed to see the obvious because of my tiny little mind…_ John reads. _I would really love to describe the details of how my friend Sherlock knew who the killer was, but that would require more intelligence than I currently have at my command. Or that my readers have at theirs._

It’s a good thing Sherlock is out of the flat because John really would kill him then and there, and he’d work out where to hide the body later. Instead, he angrily deletes the post and the 87 (unpleasant) comments it has received.

Then he storms out.

Sarah lets him in when he knocks on her door, but she gives him a patient, flat look that says she knows exactly what this is about and haven’t they had this conversation already?

“Coffee or tea?” she asks.

“Tea.” John squirms on her uncomfortable kitchen chairs. No more sofa for him. “Listen, I know this is terribly awkward. I just needed to get away.”

“Didn’t come to say hello then?” Sarah asks, but she smiles, so he knows she’s taking the piss. And he deserves it.

“Look, I… I know I messed it up. And I don’t know if I told you that, or if I told you in the right way. But I did. And I’m sorry. And I’d like to be friends, if it can be managed. I don’t have too many friends.”

“Can’t imagine why that is.” She sets his tea in front of him. “Why don’t you just move out? You can still help him out with cases, but you can also lead a normal life.”

“I don’t _want_ normal.” There, he’d said it. “I think.”

“And yet, you’re here, and you don’t look very happy.”

“I’m not happy. Not at all. Oh Sarah, this is really silly. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Sit down, John. It’s okay.” She covered his hand with hers. “Why don’t you stay over, we’ll watch telly and you can have a break from it all.”

“How is it possible you are so good to me?” John asks, looking at her full in the face.

“What are friends for?” Sarah asks, rolling her eyes and yanking him up out of his chair and his cranky mood at the same time.

He stays at Sarah’s for four days, only returning to 221b to pick up his duffel bag, which is now beginning to fray a little. Sherlock is there, but John ignores him and his violin, and tries not to feel guilty as he hears a melancholy little note sound out just as he slams the front door shut.

“Just so we’re clear,” Sarah says over dinner on Day 2, “You’re not moving in and we’re not starting anything up again.”

“Okay, yes, clear.” John had wondered, actually. He had wondered if he should give it another go with Sarah, if he made an overture, whether or not it would be returned. The thought gave him considerable consternation.

On the one hand, she smells nice. She’s sexy and smart. She’s a good person.

On the other hand, going that route would undoubtedly mean giving up Sherlock.

Which he should do, because Sherlock is an arrogant twat. A lousy flatmate. Infuriating. Rude. Immature. Insane.

“Thinking about him, are you?” Sarah asks, breaking into his increasingly circular arguments.

John coughs politely into his napkin. “Who?”

Sarah laughs, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because you’re always thinking about him. Isn’t that why we, well you know, failed to make a go of it?”

“I’m not sure,” John lies. “He keeps me busy, that’s all.”

“He keeps you intrigued, John. He keeps you on your toes. He holds your interest.”

John sighs. “And what do I do with that?”

Sarah just smiles mysteriously, her eyes twinkling in a highly suspicious way. Surely she’s not suggesting – no. It’s not like that, not with Sherlock, but particularly not on his end. He doesn’t have a schoolboy crush on Sherlock, or anything of the sort.

He just misses him. That’s all.

When John returns to 221b, still unsure about whether or not to stay, he finds the flat a mess and Sherlock in the same dressing gown, sitting in his chair with his violin. It doesn’t look like he’s moved at all. There are at least a dozen mugs in a messy ring around him. His hair looks unwashed and the heat isn’t on.

“God, Sherlock it’s freezing in here!” John nearly sprints to the radiator and struggles with the knobs. He shuts the windows, all of which are open wide. “When did you eat last?”

Sherlock waves a hand to indicate _an hour ago_ or _last week._ John puts the kettle on and starts picking up mugs, used nicotine patches, ripped up magazines and pieces of what once might have been a microscope.

When he has tidied the flat, fed Sherlock, had tea and taken out the rubbish, he finds he feels much better. Sherlock is still sitting mournfully in his assumed position but he has colour in his cheeks and looks a bit less like a young movie starlet dying of consumption.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John says.

“Goodnight, John,” he answers.

When John logs on to his computer in his bedroom, he notices that his blog has been updated again in his absence. It is a perfectly well-written article, detailing the case and making not one single snide remark.

It has 146 comments.

~*~

“I have to move out,” John says, finally broaching the subject with Sherlock. He has managed to get Sherlock to sit still and listen, just listen, and they are sitting together on the sofa.

“Hm,” Sherlock replies. He has a faraway look on his face.

“Are you listening, Sherlock?”

“You have to move out,” Sherlock repeats, slowly, as if John is demented.

“I’m not sleeping well. It’s for my health.”

“You sleep fine. Better, in fact, than you did before you moved in with me.”

“Fine. It’s the damp. It’s affecting my allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies.”

“The noise. It’s too much. Experiments at all hours. Plus the body parts. The hookers, the flogging, the ranting, the pouting, the shouting, the hacking. The drug busts.” John is beginning to feel that his desperation is doing nothing for his case. Why is he even making a case? He has to move out, that’s the end of it. Sherlock doesn’t have feelings, he won’t be hurt if John leaves, they can still be friends. Or colleagues. Whatever.

Sherlock turns to look at him. There is silence for a long time, long enough for John to start sweating and fidgeting. He purses his lips and lets out a long exhale. Sherlock begins to scrutinize him, and that’s when John realizes he is in real trouble.

“I’m astonished, John,” Sherlock says. John winces. “You fancy me. That’s what this is about. Not at first, no, but now it’s clear. You can’t live here any longer because it’s confusing you. You’re having a crisis of sexual identity.”

John says nothing, he knows if he opens his mouth to protest, it will only be worse.

“How _interesting,_ ” Sherlock says.

“Not the response I was going for,” John sighs. “I can’t, obviously, live here in order for you to conduct a sadistic experiment on me. Let’s just pretend none of this ever happened, and I’ll –“

“Do shut up, John,” Sherlock says, and closes in on him like a predator who’s spotted the perfect game. “I don’t want to lose my flatmate.”

“That’s ridiculous,” John has time to say, just before Sherlock’s face is next to his and Sherlock’s lips are pressed against his. _Not_ the response he was going for. Sherlock is nearly immobile against him, and John wonders briefly if Sherlock has ever kissed anyone before. But that thought goes out the window as Sherlock’s tongue slides over his lips, carefully controlled but very, very good, and John can’t help but open his mouth.

It’s so good in fact, that it comes as a shock. John’s lungs contract, his heart palpitates wildly and his brain reels. His cock hardens and he shudders, fear and embarrassment warring with lust.

 _Wrong!_

John gets up and lunges away from the temptation of Sherlock’s mouth. He intends to backpedal, but his leg _damn my leg_ buckles beneath him, a sharp stab of phantom pain combining with his inexplicably weak knees to send him sprawling backward, landing hard on the floor, his head thrown against the open flat door and everything goes dark.

~*~

John spends exactly one night in hospital. They wake him every few hours in case he has a concussion, but when he is released in the morning, he makes a beeline for the taxi stand. A gloved hand reaches out to open the door of a nearby taxi and Sherlock’s other hand is placed seriously and firmly at the small of his back, guiding him inside.

John’s head is a muddle and he is in no mood for Sherlock’s games. But Sherlock crowds in on him, until his back is flush against the taxi door. “Stop,” he insists.

“We can talk this to death, or we can just start. Either way, I think the outcome is inevitable.”

“It’s not. I can’t do this. Please take me seriously.”

“I am taking you seriously, John.” Sherlock’s face looks as if he’s doing the exact opposite. His eyes are twinkling in that strange way he has. As if John has just told him there’s another serial suicide victim on Christmas.

“There’s a problem, Sherlock.” John sighs and wonders if acetaminophen can make one say things they should never say. “If we do this, you’ll never get rid of me.”

“Who said I want to?” Sherlock pulls back, surprised.

“Sherlock.” John breathes out through his nose, setting his mouth in what he hopes is a firm line, and not simply a stubborn, mule-like expression. “You’re easily bored. I’m one of the most mundane people you’ve ever met, if your word can be believed. You’re married to your work. I’m not even sure I like men, even though I seem to like you and you’re well, rather like a man.”

“Yes, thank you for noticing,” Sherlock says.

“This will never work and one of us will have to move out.”

“Your deductions are sub-par and your conclusions shallow. You should leave the thinking to your betters.”

“Sherlock! I’m serious.”

“I’m always serious about your idiotic thinking. After all the times you’ve recently tried to move out, John, I am shocked that you would think I want to lose you again.”

“You’re impossible,” John says. He seems to have lost his motivation to argue. He opens his mouth, but nothing else comes out. Sherlock _is_ impossible. But John can already feel his resolve giving way to mild irritation, and yes, fondness. There is absolutely no sign on Sherlock’s face that he is even remotely aware of how annoying he is, and this has to be on purpose. Sherlock moves back to his corner of the cab and appears to sulk for the rest of the trip.

They arrive at 221b Baker Street and Sherlock huffs off to his bedroom. John spends the rest of the day looking at flats online and staring out the window. It is getting colder with each passing day and he suddenly realises the holidays are just around the corner. Perhaps he should see Sherlock through Christmas and then move out. Fresh year, fresh start.

The thought depresses the hell out of him.

~*~

The next day it snows. In fact, large clumps of snow are falling out of the sky and the wind is blowing drifts over the entire city. John comes downstairs and Sherlock is standing at the window with his arms out-flung, as if making a dramatic statement on the day. It’s apparently not a positive statement.

“Bloody hell, it’s snowing,” Sherlock says mournfully, as if the weather is out to do him in personally.

“Yeah, not much of a day for anything,” John says, thinking he’ll curl up in his chair with a book and secretly watch Sherlock exercise his frustrations in his dressing gown.

“Terrible day for you to move out, then,” Sherlock says, whirling around. “I would insist, but it really is beastly. You’ll have to stay another day, John, I’m terribly sorry.”

John looks up in surprise. “Sorry, what?”

“You were looking at flats yesterday. You have been saying you need to move out. I have decided I won’t stand in your way.” Sherlock waves his hand as if the whole matter has become incredibly tiresome. “I found a new flatmate at any rate. She’ll take over your room. But not today, clearly not today.”

“Are you out of your mind?” John says, but it is too late, Sherlock has swept off to his room. He doesn’t emerge for the rest of the day.

John spends the afternoon in an ever-increasing state of bewilderment and panic. He tries banging on the door to get Sherlock to talk about it but Sherlock just shouts back that he is in the middle of an experiment and _can’t possibly come to the door._

John paces the flat restlessly. Yes, he was looking at flats. Yes, he has moved out three times. And yes, if he has to, he can stay with Harry or Sarah or even Mike Stamford, if it comes to that. But. Sherlock is supposed to _want_ him to stay. Didn’t he say as much in the taxi yesterday? And now already he has a _woman_ moving into the flat? _Their_ flat?

John goes through several stages. Shock, anger, frustration, grief. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave _Sherlock_. Not now, not ever. God, he’s an idiot. He can hear Sherlock’s voice in his head. _Idiot_.

Finally John goes to Sherlock’s door. He bangs on it. No response. He yells at it. Again, nothing. He rattles the knob. It’s locked. There’s only one thing for it.

John can feel something coiling in the pit of his belly. It’s a bit like war. When he was getting ready to run into a firefight to save a dying soldier -- this is a bit like that. He’s got an adrenaline rush that’s making him high. He puts his shoulder to the door and pushes. When that fails he hauls back and kicks it in.

Sherlock looks up in surprise. “John!”

The door has flown open and the lock has splintered the wood of the doorframe.

“You win,” John pants. “I want this. I want _you_ , God help me, and I’m not leaving without a fight.”

Sherlock raises one eyebrow as if he doesn’t quite believe John’s melodrama. “Really, John, there’s no need to make a fuss. Once the snow clears...”

“I’ve checked the weather reports and it will be snowing for days.” He steps toward Sherlock’s bed, where Sherlock is perched with a book. He plucks the book out of his hands and sets it aside. He leans in toward Sherlock’s face. “Days, Sherlock. Trapped together here, you and me.”

Sherlock swallows audibly, but tries to cover his consternation. “So, we have days to reach an agreement, then. About when you’ll be leaving.”

“I told you, if we started this, you’d never get rid of me.”

“And nothing has started,” Sherlock says.

“You have never been more wrong,” John informs him. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, pushes him back on the bed, climbs up and covers him with his body. He runs a thumb down Sherlock’s cheek. “This is something… you want this too?”

“All of it,” Sherlock replies, as if John really is the biggest idiot he’s ever met. Their lips meet halfway and John curls his fists in Sherlock’s dressing gown, winds his tongue around Sherlock’s and presses his erection into Sherlock’s leg.

Sherlock responds with a gasp, pulls open his dressing gown and scrambles to get John out of his clothes. They lay panting, side-by-side, naked and staring at one another. Slowly, John takes Sherlock in his hand and begins to stroke. Sherlock mirrors the action, wrapping his fingers around John’s cock. John tries not to make embarrassing noises. It’s weird and it’s confusing and it’s hot, all at the same time.

John leans in to kiss him, but Sherlock pulls back. “I want to see your face,” he says. Soon, they are both short of breath and John tries to keep his eyes open as he comes hard in Sherlock’s hand. Watching Sherlock come too, is a revelation.

Severed limbs, strange experiments, practical jokes, ridiculous accidents, the occasional kidnapping, running from criminals, running _after_ criminals, insults, embarrassments, odd hours. These are all part of Sherlock. Part and parcel of life at 221b, a life that John knows now that he wants. It’s the only life that will make him happy.

“What about the woman?” John asks. He almost feels bad about disappointing her.

“What woman?” Sherlock asks with a smile.

John laughs, and since his hand is still wrapped around Sherlock’s dick, he gives it a playful squeeze.

“Give me a few minutes,” Sherlock protests, gingerly removing John’s hand. “We have several snow days in which you will have to keep me from being bored since London’s criminal element will find itself paralyzed along with most of the city.”

“You can count on me,” John says. He slides in close to Sherlock and wraps his arms around him. It will be very difficult to let go.  



End file.
